


Burn The Witch

by Phoenix_of_Athena



Series: Historical Omens (all of my pre-canon GO fics in one place) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Agnes Nutter Deserved Better, Agnes Nutter's Prophecies, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Fate & Destiny, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, Possible Suicide TW, Pre-Canon, Predestination, Prophecy, historical setting, maybe--better safe than sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-11-02 08:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20683004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_of_Athena/pseuds/Phoenix_of_Athena
Summary: Agnes watched her village grow around her, saw babies grow to be men who would someday burn her, and she reminded herself that it would be worth it.  She was important.  Agnes would be a figure who shaped the world; she would be wise and mysterious, and slightly catty; she would be respected by those few in the know, and revered by her own descendants.  Her legacy would be enormous.  Valuable.  Larger than life.





	Burn The Witch

**Author's Note:**

> Where did this come from? I don't know.  
Agnes doesn't get much attention, I guess, even though she's pretty much the one who pulled all the strings.

It hadn’t been a bad life, she told herself. Really, all things considered, it had been quite decent. She’d lived to an older age than most—although not, perhaps, as old as she might have. And she’d raised a beautiful, clever daughter and watched her family grow—although she would miss the birth of her first grandchild by a month.

But on the whole, Agnes Nutter decided, she had done very well, considering. And she’d even managed to act with charity and kindness—although that, perhaps, could be attributed to the fact that she hadn’t had the Sight until she was already twenty two years old…and at that point, she had already made a life for herself that was inexorably entangled with her community. (Sometimes she wondered if she could have brought herself to marry the man she did, had she known what was coming—had she known then, as she would come to, that her own brothers and sisters by marriage would see her dead.)

In any case, Agnes had made the best of it. It had been, she would concede, somewhat difficult to keep her spirits up as time went on—but she’d learned to take her pleasures where she could. She would be the first to acknowledge that by the end of it, her sense of humor had become slightly mean…but really, what did they expect of her? She did her best; she looked after her family as she could. 

But there is something to be said about knowing too much. And Agnes did. Know too much.

From her early adulthood on, she had known the sorts of things that would make philosophers weep with envy, and theologians in despair (the things she’d Seen had very nearly driven Agnes to that point, herself—but, as it was, she had developed a slightly twisted sense of humor to combat it). And Agnes knew that despite it all, things would work out in the end—the very End. 

Only, not for her. 

She knew what she would do to pave the way.

Agnes Nutter had woken up on the witching hour one night, twenty two years old, a young mother with a husband in her bed. She had woken up with knowledge that she couldn’t possibly have: not quite visions, not quite feelings; a thing of _knowing_. She had woken up, stared up at the naked ceiling streaked with moonlight, and she had wept. Her daughter slept unknowing in the other room, not yet aware of the legacy she would pass down and down. Her dear, sweet husband slept unknowing of the sickness that would claim his life two winters yet to come. And Agnes could not forget.

She spent the next month bargaining. With herself, with the world, with God, she did not know. She spent the next year delving into the witchcraft of her mother’s family, searching for a way to block these truths that came into her head—searching for a way to turn her fate away. Her daughter grew, and her husband grew ill. Agnes searched her own mind for answers, desperately filling her head with potions and herbs and begging the future for a cure.

He’d still died. 

He’d died just as she’d known he would, with his cold hand in hers.

For some time, Agnes considered leaving it all, and running away.

She knew the part she’d have to play, and she wanted none of it. What a terrible way to die! Burned at the stake by those she’d cherished; taking the others with her not only out of revenge, but partially out of resignation too. She had a bond to forge between two families, to establish with blood and flame. And Agnes did not care for it. 

In fact, she resolutely did not care for the future at all. And why should she? She’d be long dead before the antichrist arrived no matter what she did; why should she care if the world followed?

Oh, but. 

But.

Agnes watched her daughter grow.

She struggled to support her as best she could without her husband there. She knew the exact day her child met the boy who would make her happy when they were grown. And how could she take that away? How could she take away the happiness and success of her own blood when instead she could provide it? How could she leave the world to die when she knew just the way things needed to go to stop it?

Agnes knew too much; she knew her own heart too.

So Agnes Nutter wrote. She wrote, and she wrote, and she peered into the future and consulted with practical divinations and herb lore. Her pen scratched across vellum late into the night as she raced the dripping candle to inscribe it all. She wrote and she rewrote and she reordered her words again. Phrasing was particular. 

Agnes watched her daughter grow into a child and then a young woman. She jogged and ate a balanced diet, and kept up her health, for it would all be for naught if she died before the appointed time. 

She taught her daughter all she could of witchcraft when in private, and distanced herself in public. She watched her village grow around her, saw babies grow to be men who would someday burn her, and she reminded herself that it would be worth it. _She_ was important. Agnes would be a figure who shaped the world; she would be wise and mysterious, and slightly catty; she would be respected by those few in the know, and revered by her own descendants. Her legacy would be enormous. Valuable. Larger than life.

Agnes went into the city. She found the most incompetent, underhanded, and perfect publishers. She sold her work, and got a copy in print. She stared down at the bright cloth cover of her _Nice and Accurate Prophecies_, and saw it old and worn and scorched. She locked it away. Its time would come.

Agnes saw her daughter married. She knew that they would be happy. 

Agnes wrote. She wrote letters and instructions, and gave them away. She cleaned her house and cooked her dinner for one. She visited her daughter in the neighboring village where she had encouraged the young couple to move. She sat alone in her house and stared down at her hands and wondered when they had become so worn.

There was one more thing that she could do. One more thing…that did not pertain to the apocalypse. A kindness. A gift. 

Agnes took up her pen.

She wrote a book on parchment with hands that shook. It was a book that would not be read, but one that needed to be written. She closed her eyes, and thought of her descendant, alone with her own judgment. It should be a choice.

A choice is precious.

Agnes wrote.

She wrote a letter; she wrote a story. It was a relief, to put it down on paper.

Finally, she stared down at the stack of paper and signed her name. In the morning, she would seal it away, and ensure it was delivered. She would, although a part of her didn’t want to part with it. Why should she, after all? That story was _hers._ It was her letter for the world once she was gone, and it would go unread. And why_, why_ should that girl, a child of her own blood, have the chance to choose her fate, far off and free in the future when Agnes would be trapped in flame by her own will? 

But she would send it to the law firm, and it would arrive exactly on time; she knew it would.

Morning came and passed. Days and months went by, and Agnes tidied her affairs. She purchased tons of roofing nails, and mixed together minerals. She went on daily runs, and practiced walking in heavy, sabotaged skirts. She wrote a letter for the milkman. She wrote a letter for her daughter and the young man she’d wed.

Agnes watched the dawns, walked through the trees and dipped her feet into the stream. Why should she not? 

She spoke of odd things to the village that had born and raised her, and thought of flames.

The day arrived. She dressed carefully; washed her breakfast dishes and put them all away. She waited. 

It was a long wait.

They were late.

She was not afraid (except she was).

She _knew_ that it would all work out. She knew the ways of the universe, and hoped that she’d been good enough for heaven. But if not, she’d take it as it came. There was little she could do about it anyways.


End file.
